


What We Did

by roxywritings



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Humanstuck, Multi, Party, Summer
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-02-08
Updated: 2013-02-08
Packaged: 2017-11-28 15:55:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,796
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/676193
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/roxywritings/pseuds/roxywritings
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>One stormy summer night, four teens - two boys, two girls - made the worst decision of their lives. Drunk, depressed, desperate and daring, they got themselves into an accident that should have killed them. But the next day they woke up unscratched - learning that someone else paid the price for them. All Vriska, Tavros, Eridan and Feferi want to do is forget about what happened that fateful night. But as long as a mysterious blocked number knows their darkest secrets, there’s no chance of that happening.</p>
            </blockquote>





	What We Did

When Vriska showed up at Tavros’s door bearing a few heavy textbooks and a charcoal-smudged blue book bag, he thought she might have forgotten about the party. “Readyyyyyyyy?” she chimed, flashing a smile over his shoulder in the direction of his dad. He picked at the ratty brown hoodie he’d thrown on no less than a minute ago, a wave of uncertainty he’d memorized, knew well, washing over him.

“We’re just, um, going to the library, right?” he asked, wincing as the words tumbled from his mouth in a hesitant jumble. “Not …” He lowered his voice so his father wouldn’t hear. “… To the, uhh, party?”

Vriska’s lips spread into a thin, bright grin. “Of course not, silly! But you should change your hoodie,” she said on afterthought, her eyes crinkling in distaste as they brushes over the rips, holes and loose threads that poked out. “Maybe into that leather jacket I got for your birthday a while ago! It’ll look soooooooo nice.”

Before he could even flinch, she’d grabbed his wrists and was pulling him out into the muggy mid-July air, the glimmers of moonlight peeking through the dark clouds bouncing off her bared white teeth. Tavros tried to squirm, tried to free himself from her grip, but failed, finally slumping in relent. “If it’s just the library,” he started, trying his best not to let his stutter show, “then why do I need a leather jacket?”

She frowned, releasing his hands suddenly and letting them flop to his sides. “Because Kanaya might be joining us! You know how she’ll be like if she sees you all like that. You have to look your pluckiest to impress her! And I know how you want to impress her,” she cooed, unzipping his hoodie slowly, working it off of him.

“I don’t, uh, really care, about impressing Kanaya?” he said, his voice squeaking.

“Then do it for me, Tavros! Do it for me! I can’t stand to see you in that dumb old thing when I spent good money on that nice leather jacket. Dumb dumb dumb.” She pouted, spinning around so he got a slap of raven hair in his face that almost sent him toppling onto the sea of overgrown, dew-painted grass. When he said something that could have been a protest or an agreement, she spun back around, her eyes locking on his. Her lips barely moved as she spoke: “What did you say there, Tavros?”

After a steady twenty seconds of painful glares beamed at him, he caved in, muttering some vague words as he retreated back into the house, reappearing moments later clad in a glossy black leather jacket. 

She clapped her hands together in delight. “Perfect!”

Suspicion prickled his skin and he couldn’t help but think she was lying, or trying to drag him to the party. He’d heard about Makara house parties, heard enough that he knew he didn’t want to be involved in one, and Vriska knew it. But he’d seen her dressed up for parties, and the outfit she donned know didn’t even begin to measure up to her past standards. The definitely-not-as-tight-as-they-could-be jean capris, lace-trimmed navy camisole and almost-makeupless face was as plain as it got for Vriska Serket. Tavros figured he was good.

That was his first mistake.

The moment he slid into her beat-up sedan he knew something was wrong. Because they weren’t alone. In the backseat, sprawled across the smudged leather, was a lanky figure Tavros couldn’t identify immediately, draped in a blue striped scarf that was wholly inappropriate for eighty-degree weather and mussed hair with a solid streak of purple cutting through the middle. Just as Tavros’s jaw dropped, poised to speak, a cold hand clamped over his mouth. “Don’t,” Vriska whispered in his ear, using her pinky to trace a circle on his cheek.

To the figure in the back, she said: “Eridan, wake up. Tavros is here. Switch seats.”

As the figure—a boy—unfurled, Tavros realized he recognized him vaguely. “W-what do you mean switch seats?” he asked, shrinking down to avoid the boy’s cold, penetrating gaze.

“I mean switch seats, toredumbass!” Vriska said, elbowing Tavros so he stumbled out of the car onto the curb, chipped from years of relentless failed bike trick attempts. He cringed at the use of the word that had become his nickname ever since the much-regretted day in seventh grade he’d chosen his email name. Back then, he’d gone through a phase which he hated to look back on or even ever mention, one that prompted him to choose a username with ‘toreador’ in it. Vriska came up with ‘toredumbass’ immediately. And it stuck.

“Why can’t he just, stay in the back?” he protested, aware now that the guy, Eridan, she’d said, was behind him, his long, thin frame casting a shadow on him. Her eyes narrowed as she fingered the wheel.

“Eridan is going through extreme emotional trauma. He needs all of the special treatment. All of it.”

“Fine, um, I guess,” Tavros mumbled, sidestepping awkwardly so Eridan could take his seat. He had barely had a chance to seat himself in the back or even buckle up before he was deafened by the roar of the engine and thrust forward then back by a sudden lurch. The car sped forwards, throwing him in every direction and nearly giving him a concussion. Only when they came to a red light did Vriska slow down by a fraction of a mile, allowing him to buckle his seatbelt, to exhale, before she accelerated again.

The awkward silence that threatened to hang over them was shattered when the radio was flicked on, a heavy pop-rock song immediately crushing them. “Wh _oooooooo_!” Vriska cheered as she cranked it up.

Her enthusiasm wasn’t contagious. In the passenger seat, Eridan let out a flat moan as he fixed his hair in the mirror. Tavros shifted uncomfortably, still trying to entertain the possibility that they were headed to the library; or at least, to anywhere but the Makara residence. When he caught Vriska flipping down the mirror and applying layer after layer of metallic blue lipstick and matching, silver-glitter-speckled eyeshadow, his shoulders slumped, the possibilites slimming. When she kicked her legs up on the wheel and sent her jeans flying at his face, the car swerving dangerously from side to side on the bumpy road, he lost all hope.

“You can’t change while driving!” he shouted over the music, his voice wavering. He wanted to say: take me home right now. He wanted to say: you’re going to get us killed. He wanted to say: I want to go to the library I don’t want to die I don’t want to get drunk or killed by crazy Juggalo partygoers I want you to stop. But he didn’t. Instead, he kept silent, struggling to scratch the spider crawling up his throat.

“Oh yes I can,” she sang, tossing back her cami. In a moment of stunned silence Tavros realized that Vriska was in nothing but her underwear, driving a car that did or did not belong to her down a dusty country road that most definitely did not lead to the library on the eighteenth of July. It all seemed surreal, especially the part about her being in nothing but her underwear, attempting to change while driving.

A slight shift of the head told Tavros that Eridan was making no effort whatsoever to draw his gaze from Vriska’s tan, exposed body as she rummaged through her bag with one hand, pulling out tiny denim short-shorts and a halter top. What he really couldn’t believe was that she had no problem with Eridan staring her down blatantly; if it had been Tavros doing that she would have probably punched him in the face or broken his wrist, which she had done when he’d tried one time. She kept his hospital bracelet as a souvenir.

“We’re pickin up Fef, right?” Eridan asked, speaking for the first time. His voice was low, slipping almost inaudibly under the rapid river of crashing guitar riffs, and he slurred his w’s.

“Yessssssss,” Vriska said, tipping back her head and rolling the window down.

“Wait, uh, who? What?” Tavros grabbed the back of her seat, only to have his hand swiped away.

“Feferi, Tavros! Keep up with the times.” To Eridan: “Her house is close, right?”

“Kinda,” he muttered. “Fuckin’ fancy estate twenty miles away.”

“Oh, grow up.” Vriska, fully clothed now—in comparison, at least, as her new microshorts-and-top ensemble wasn’t too much of an upgrade from her underwear—waved him off, turning down the msuic a notch. “Your house is still pretty much a mansion. You have, like, all of the stuff. All of it.”

As a reply was thrown back—“That’s incredibly fuckin’ vague, Vris,” met with a “What?”—Tavros shrunk back so his spine was pressed against the seat, feeling sick to his stomach. Between their growing banter, he sensed a connection, feeling more left out than ever stuck behind them. Several times he cracked his mouth open, words forming in his throat; but every time, just as he mustered enough courage to voice them, his insides shriveled, dried up, taunting him and forcing him to slump once more. Finally, just as they careened turning a bend, he somehow managed to do it: “So, we’re, um, going to the party?”

Abruptly, the banter ceased, and the song that had been blasting came to an end. From the silence, Vriska spoke, her tone oozing condescencion. “ _Obviously_. But first we’re picking up Eridan’s ex.”

“We aren’t thinkin of Fef as my ex anymore.” Eridan.

“Well, I’m trying to keep Tavros updated on things. He’s so wrapped up in his own little world he doesn’t have the time to care about other people’s relationships! Selfish selfish selfish.” Vriska.

“Can I, uhh, go home after we pick her, up?” Tavros.

“Who the fuck even is this guy?” Eridan.

“Consider him a charity case. He needs to get out more.” Lowered voice, like a horrifying secret was being divulged, like Tavros wasn’t right there: “He’s been none of the parties. None of them.” Vriska.

As the conversation spiraled, becoming more centered around “Fef” and Eridan and Vriska, Tavros let out a sigh, watching acre after acre of pristine, fluorescently-lit golf courses pass by in a blur. When he was almost completely positive that no one was even bothering to listen to him anymore, he said to the window, his voice faltering in a quiet whine as he touched the cool glass, “Can this night just be over.”

But Vriska heard, evidently, as she spun around, releasing both hands from the wheel, to stare at him. “Are you kidding, Tavros?” she said, grinning right at him. “This night has just begun.”


End file.
